


Sweet Comfort

by CorsetJinx



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Forehead Kisses, Forehead Touching, Mild pampering, POV Second Person, soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 04:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13182336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx
Summary: Political intrigue, dragons, daily chores that might turn the most sagacious people around all have a way of wearing a person down.





	Sweet Comfort

Your feet carry you across the Coerthas Highlands, aiming only for the nebulous goal of _escape_ and quiet. Somehow you find your way to Camp Dragonhead. To Haurchefant’s office, though you never actually processed the thought of wanting to see him. A part of you hopes that he will not be in - what with the scattered state of your mind and the shell-shocked twitch of your fingers, you don’t particularly want _anyone_ to see you this way.

Alas, the Commander _is_ in. Worse still, you’ve caught him at a lull. He has no pressing business - No cadets to reprimand, no dragons to fend off. Still, a tiny, mad sliver of you hopes that you’ll be turned away for some other reason.

It doesn’t happen. The soldier standing guard salutes you and you think you can almost recognize his face. You’ve fought together before, probably, but you feel so addled that if you do know him his name escapes your memory.

It hits you then, as you duck your head into the slightly warmer hall that leads to your goal. Who in their right mind would deny the infamous Warrior of Light? Rumors of your exploits reached even so isolated a place as Ishgard long before you yourself did. The Lord Commander had said so himself - even confessed to being curious about whether or not the stories were true.

You’ve felled monsters made of nightmares, beings summoned out of desperate prayers that might as well be called _gods_ but - Twelve help you - you don’t feel anything like a hero or a savior as you fumble with the simple task of opening a door.

He looks up the moment you enter, a smile just for you already on his face. You don’t know who told him you were arriving, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. He’s standing - so godsbedamned _tall_ that you feel almost tiny in comparison.

_That’s the problem with elezen_ , you think to yourself. _Being up that high all the time gives one a skewed view of things._

You wince. The thought is unkind, especially when Haurchefant has done nothing but welcome and support you since the very beginning. It’s not his fault that the race he was born to rarely produces any persons under six fulms and some change.

“Welcome, my friend.” He looks at you as though you’ve come to deliver a season’s worth of Starlight gifts months early. As though you are the most important thing in the room. In the world, even. His hand is pleasantly heavy and warm on your shoulder, heedless of the snow that speckled your coat. “I’m surprised to see you outside of the city. Is…” He falters, studying your face. “Is all well?”

_No. I feel as though I am losing my mind._

Gods, what you would give to say it. You probably could. He’s always promised to keep your secrets better than his own and not once has that trust been misplaced thus far.

But your tongue stays heavy and unresponsive in your mouth - overcrowded with words and the slowly growing need to just _scream_ and see if that provides an adequate outlet. Whatever he sees in your face, there is no judgment on his own. He squeezes your shoulder tenderly, a tiny version of his earlier smile playing across his face.

“A drink first, I think. Something to shake the cold from your bones.” He quirks a brow to ask for your approval and you nod, grateful that he doesn’t ask you to speak.

You’ve done more talking in the past few days than in a whole year of your life before this _Warrior of Light_ business. Nowadays your words are often levied at the willingly deaf and find themselves met with blades. Or magic. Or poison.

On very rare, special occasions you might be greeted with _all three_ even before open your mouth. Such is the kindness of the current political climate, it seems.

He guides you into sitting in the chair in front of his desk before making a beeline to the table pushed off to the side of the room. Tankards dangle loosely from his fingers as he returns, wordlessly preparing the only drink you’ve known him to indulge in to the point of excess. You’re grateful for the consideration as the smell of fresh cocoa fills the room, some of your paranoia assuaged by the sight of his hands at work.

You do not _logically_ believe Haurchefant would ever poison you, but the experience in Ul'dah has left lasting impressions. You do not want to touch any drink unless you see it being prepared with your own eyes.

“Here we are.” He passes you one of the tankards, the look in his eyes gentle. “Warm yourself with this. There is no need to talk unless you are ready.”

You pull the cup close, some part of you amused that it is made for an elezen’s hands. Despite it’s size you manage to hold it and take a sip. Somehow, he knows just the way you like your cocoa best. It’s good, you admit privately. It certainly goes a way towards chasing out the chill.

As promised there is no need to speak. The quiet is companionable, with only the crackle of the brazier to disrupt it. Haurchefant allows himself a pleased sigh as he drinks, eyes closing with pleasure. You glance at the papers separated into neat stacks on his desk, wondering which is yet to be signed. He catches your eye, his wink making some of the tension in your chest slip away.

“It never ends, I’m afraid.” He tells you conspiratorially, smiling. “Here, or in the city.”

You nod. You’ve certainly learned that lesson, even before the accusation of murder sullied your name. At least, you figure, his own duties are not half so trying. You hope that they aren’t.

Your tankard is nearly empty by the time you set it down at last. Almost immediately you miss it, if only because it was warm and heavy enough to quell the nervousness in your hands. Without it you fidget.

_I…_ You begin, only to trail off. What can you say to explain yourself? To justify your mad dash from the city gates, seeking only to lose yourself among snow and ice until your head ceased whirling? That you’d only come here because your feet happened to lead you here by chance?

He waits, ever patient, and does not judge you for the way you stall.

_I don’t…_ Again words fail you. Frustration curls up tight and hot around your throat. Your hands curl into fists and clench until your knuckles turn white. _I don’t feel…_

Silence stretches on, tight as a bowstring. To you, at least.

“You do not feel as yourself.” Haurchefant surmises, watching you. “And you feel too much as it stands. Is that the gist of it, my friend?”

You nod. That is, perhaps, the simplest way of putting it.

_I need…_ You say, trying to loosen your hands before they freeze like this. You need many things, you realize. To take a break. To be seen as a _person_ and less like a _tool of war_ , a weapon to be pointed at whatever world-threatening force rears its head next.

Haurchefant sets his tankard down and stands, crossing ‘round his desk until he stops in front of you. You’re afraid to look up at him, even though you do not think he would judge you harshly. It’s when he cups your face in his hands that you can no longer avoid eye contact. His gloves are rough, but they’re warm. Gentle.

You close your eyes when his forehead touches yours, breath trapped somewhere in your chest. He doesn’t say anything, bless him. Only offers this - actual contact with another living being that’s not likely to result in a life or death fight.

It’s a little pathetic, how badly you want this to stretch on forever.

“If it be within my power, friend, I would offer you anything you need.” He murmurs after a minute passes, breath ghosting over face. His thumbs brush over your ears too lightly to tickle, but the sensation is nice.

_Please._ You hear yourself say. Whisper, more like. It hangs in the air between the two of you and for a moment you aren’t sure you care what he gleans from that.

Nothing changes at first. It’s just you and him, the brazier crackling away somewhere out of sight. You’re miles away from Ishgard and the ones who would gladly see your head on a pike. One might say you’re in the safest place you possibly can be. The soldiers of Camp Dragonhead are loyal, all of them. Haurchefant has already worked miracles in your favor - granting you peace when the Holy See would happily toss you out.

Not just him, but…

He kisses your forehead, drawing those thoughts up short. It’s for the better - if you muse any longer about the state of things you are likely to go mad. You keep still as he leans back, wishing that he’d stayed so close just a little bit longer.

“No need to think.” He tells you softly. There’s that look in his eyes again - the one where it’s as though you make up a portion of his world. “You have endured enough of that, yes?”

You nod, stuck somewhere between numb weariness and vague hope.

He’s gentle. And warm. And asks nothing of you save what permission you’re willing to give. You trust yourself to his care, frayed nerves soothed by his lack of expectations before they are kindled again by his tenderness.

There’s not much else to do but hold on and breathe. You’re an entirely different sort of mess by the time you say mercy, glad only that he does not leave you alone with your thoughts afterwards. He’s warm, something solid to lean against while tremors steal the coordination from your limbs. His fingers slip through your hair at a leisurely pace and you no longer feel as though Titan himself has weighed down your spirits.


End file.
